Quiet Fire
by Eirina
Summary: DHr-AU France 1944-Stuck in a small cottage on the borders of Paris, waiting for her parents return, Hermione is so sure of her future-Until a wounded Nazi soldier stumbles into her cabbage patch, and into her life...
1. Chapter 1

_France 1944, DMHG- Stuck in a small cottage, on the borders of Paris, waiting for her parents return, Hermione Granger is so very sure of her future- Escape the war, become a nurse, grow old with thirty cats- until a wounded Nazi soldier stumbles into her patch of cabbages, and then into her life _

**AU- I was inspired to write this by the fact that the Wizarding War is so much like World War II. Plus, I've always wanted to write about Draco as a German soldier, so there.**

**For Simplicity's sake, let's pretend the English that your reading is actually French, and that everybody has an English accent, including Draco, m'kay?**

**DISLCAIMER- I do not own Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy, or Hermione Granger- If I did we wouldn't have to write fanfiction to create Dramione**

**Please R/R if you like it, if you don't, oh hell just review if you read it. Pretty Please, with Draco's apple on top ;-)**

_**August 24**__**th**__**, 1944, Paris countryside, France**_

She sat on the porch in her mother's rocking chair with a copy of Homer's Iliad lying face down, untouched, on her lap. Hermione stared out at the rich expanse of green shrubs, cabbage beds, fuchsia roses and purple Larkspur, enclosed with a rusty iron fence, locked in by a gate almost completely unhinged, swinging and squeaking as the cold winds of the Parisian border pushed and pulled at it.

She sighed. How long now? How many more nights did she have to lay awake, conscious of every movement, every rustle of trees, every creak on the porch steps, every squeak of the old front door.

Black circles lined her eyes; she didn't have the energy anymore to get up in the morning. To cook a lonely breakfast for one, to don her father's old denim overalls, trek into the wet soil to water and weed the vegetables and her momma's precious flower beds.

She didn't have the patience to milk Pip, the old jersey cow, and when she managed to get a cup worth out of her it always tasted sour and foreign. The only comfort she had was Crookshanks, the ball of blindingly orange fur who'd crawl into her lap in the evenings and sit with her throughout the restless night. He was her only friend, especially now, while she waited alone in the old shack.

Exactly a month ago her parents had packed a few measly belongings and left for a small neighbouring farm about three days walk from their cottage. They were hidden quite well in the wilds bordering on Paris. They'd lived here since she was born, and even when Germany invaded France, they had remained undiscovered, and thankfully free from Hitler.

Her parent's sudden need for socialisation was for a good cause- The Neighbours, the Potters, had an outbreak of measles. Hermione's mother worked magic with her medicines, and they set off at the crack of dawn to aid the family.

She had wanted to go with, of course. The Potters had been their friends for many years, especially now, when all they had were each other. Her parents wouldn't hear of it, especially when she needed to look after the house. She hoped Harry was alright.

Hermione idly stroked Crookshanks while her mind wandered. She knew Measles took a while to be cured, but still, an entire month? Without even a word? It was unlike her parents to leave their teenage daughter alone for so long.

Since birth she had been taught how to manage the small place, how to cure illnesses in the plants, how to look after the little livestock they had. She knew what to do, and how to do it, and she was pragmatic about the whole thing- but still. She was their only child, just shy of seventeen. They would have sent her _something_.

"Well old thing" she bent to kiss Crook goodnight, and in return received a pink scratch along her wrist "sometimes you take after me far too much."

The cat hissed. She took this as a sign of agreement.

Her head felt like it was full of rocks. No, not rocks, like pebbles, small and irritating, bumping against every fragile, tangible nerve in her brain.

The agitated crow of the rooster at dawn awoke her. This was a pity, since she had only slept for a few hours anyway.

She felt the familiar graze of fur against her bare leg.

"Ngghh" Crookshanks dodged the blow of her foot, almost cackling with pride. He then unceremoniously dumped his fat expanse of body onto her back.

Swearing to herself now, Hermione pushed the duvet- and Crook- off her and slid to her feet.

"And so another day of pillaging the stocks," she sing-songed "of cooking and cleaning, and baking, and candle stick making, and cleaning again because wax is awfully messy, and-" _boom!_

"What in Go-" _boom! _The small cottage literally shook under the explosion. Bombs, gunfire, screaming. She could hear it from a distance, yet it sounded right on her doorstep.

She ran to the front door, swung it open and listened. Paris. Bombing in Paris. A jolt went through her. A happy, anxious, frightened, hopeful jolt. Who had invaded Paris? The US army? Russia? England? Another bomb went off and she dropped into the rocking chair, suddenly wishing she could crawl under her parent's bed and wait, knowing they were right by her side, protecting her.

She decided to do just this, anyway. It was awfully narrow under there, but she squirmed her way under it, feeling a bit safer than before. 'Just pretend they're out there.'

Crookshanks, who never scared unlike his master, squatted his big body and started the long hard crawl underneath the narrow bed to her side. She felt the purring and laid a hand on his warm belly. He squirmed away and curled by her legs.

Another bomb sounded. "Please let them be alright!" She whispered to whichever God wanted to listen to her.

She had never been raised in a religious household. Her mother was French, and believed in the Christian deity, though it wasn't often her mother even talked about God, or the afterlife.

Her father on the other hand was half Jewish, and although he never practised Judaism, he always instilled s_ome _knowledge of her ancestors' faith into her.

"M-mother Mary, full of Grace," _boom! _"Hallow be thy name" here she paused, got lost, forgot entirely all that her mother had taught her.

Stumbling upon a crumb she started again "Although I walk through the valley of death I shall not fear-" she wanted to scream in frustration. Crookshanks sensed this and dug a claw into her stomach.

"Oh nice, nice going of you, oh buddy, oh pal, oh ugly piece of-" _boom! _

The fighting continued, and she lost track of time. Perhaps hours had passed, perhaps only minutes.

When she strung together some courage and tiptoed to the porch steps she could see smoke a distance away. It was definitely in Paris.

She heard Pip stomping around in the small barn.

Hermione sighed. Even with bombs going off, she had to stop thinking of herself and start thinking of everything else. The plants needed to be seen too (the cabbages were just about ready to be harvested, and the small patch of wild mushrooms just inside the woods should be ready in a few days.) She had work to do, enough to keep her busy while her mind wandered and worried.

While she sat with weeding the rose beds Hermione could swear she heard screaming and the faint sound of gunshots, even though the bombs had ended hours ago. It was getting late, the sun slowly starting to creep into the clouds and disappear, leaving her alone again to face the fact that her parents might not come back to her.

"Stop it. Stop it right now!" She dug her nails into her palms, fists clenching. This was getting her nowhere, this constant dread and worry and heart palpitations every time she heard a noise in the night. They were fine, they were coming.

"They're coming…" she muttered. Crookshanks sat next to her. She turned to rub his head "they're coming."

He looked back at her with big, green eyes, as if to say 'No, Hermione, no'.

Just then, as if God had heard her incoherent prayers and sent a miracle to her, she heard footsteps approaching from the back path. Hermione braced herself. It could be her parents, it could be Harry… or it could be someone who is definitely not welcome here.

She pushed her gardening gloves off and snuck into the house. From the pantry window she would have a clear view of whoever was approaching. She tiptoed to the kitchen and pushed her way through to the pantry. She pulled a stool from underneath a heavy bag of potatoes. Her mother was saving those for a special occasion. They were just about ready to go off, though.

She grabbed the high window ledge and stepped onto the stool. She pressed her nose against the glass. Whoever had been approaching was walking fast, because they'd either disappeared into the woods or come around the front.

A sudden shriek filled the silence. Crookshanks. Hermione, forgetting all decorum, could only see poor Crook in her mind. She ran through the kitchen, out onto the porch and Crookshanks flung himself and all his nails into her chest.

"Oof!" she fell back onto her bottom under the heavy impact. Crook dug his claws into her overalls and wouldn't pry them off.

Hermione stared past the orange mess- "Oh God help me" – to the patch of flattened vegetables, and to the bleeding mess of blond hair on top of them.

She sat still, barely breathing. The body moved an inch, groaned, and fell down again. It lay still for at least ten minutes before she shoved Crook off of her.

The body was covered in an olive uniform, and when she pushed it over with the toe of her boot she found the red _swastika, _glaring her straight in the face.

A German soldier. A Nazi. She could see the blood pooling on his right shoulder. Just a few inches lower and the bullet would have pierced his heart.

'Pity,' she thought. Now what? She couldn't just leave this thing to bleed all over her poor cabbages. Cabbages she had worked so hard on. All those hours of pruning and tender loving, her mother was coming home to flattened cabbages!

"Right," she clenched her fists again "priorities, Hermione. Let's lug this inside and if he moves we batter him with a frying pan."

Crookshanks sat a safe distance from the unconscious stranger who had nearly scared him half to death. He sniffed the air. It smelt horrible; by _it_ he was referring to the oaf that had squashed the cabbages.

He watched Hermione peel off the undershirt of the stranger. She, too, was equally disgusted.

"Oh Crook, why does this always happen to me?" She dipped her hand into the bowl of water by her side and grabbed the washcloth. The blood was still pouring out the hole; luckily the bullet had come out the other side. The very idea of sticking tweezers into the gaping flesh of another person made her want to throw up the entire contents- an apple and a bowl of oats- of her stomach.

Crookshanks felt a bit sorry for her, but still. She deserved it for kicking him off the bed.

"You know," she snorted, wiping a thick, green salve over the wound "maybe you should have been a black cat."

Black was definitely not his colour, Crook thought.

"Perhaps I should throw some ink on you."

He walked out the door.

"Right…" Hermione looked at the gauze wrap now. This would prove interesting. How she had managed to lug the deadweight up the stairs and onto the couch she had no idea. Now to pick up his upper body to put on the bandage. Well, if it didn't go on properly that was not her fault. After all, she was doing this because if she left him lying there and another Nazi had found him- well, she didn't feel like getting shot today.

"Okay, Hermione. Let's wrap this bloody bandage."

It was just past midnight when he started to stir. She had been sitting opposite him with a frying pan clutched to her chest. She couldn't exactly doze off with a Nazi in the house, but her eyes were starting to drift shut.

What would she do with him when he woke up? She hadn't been prepared for this. This was an adult's job, an adult's decision.

The light from the weak fire in the stove played along his sharp features.

He was ghastly, pale as a sheet, with lips pulled into a constant frown and a scar above his left eye. Although heavy for her to lift, he was surprisingly gangly and narrow for a soldier, and his feet and a good portion of his legs hung over the little couch.

He might have been attractive to another kind of girl.

But he certainly wasn't her type. She liked dark, curly hair, with broad shoulders and deep brown eyes- like the ones in her mother's romance novels- and she certainly was not attracted to racist, abusive, abhorrent individuals with a constant taste for violence.

A coal popped in the stove and his eyes flickered open for a second. She froze, fingers tightening like steel on the pan handle.

_Mother Mary, full of Grace_

He moved his lips and she thought she heard a few noises from him. He was obviously mumbling something in German, which she had no understanding of and certainly no passion to learn.

He slid a leg off the couch. She jumped up, frying pan jutted out towards him.

"Don't move!" She hissed "I mean it."

His eyes were open now- a menacing shade of blue and grey- she hoped he understood her.

"I don't think that will do much damage." He spoke in her mother tongue, pointing a finger towards her pan.

"Shall we test that theory or would you prefer to remain conscious?"

Crookshanks walked into the front door, stared at the stranger, then at his master, and went back outside again.

Well damn, she thought, what a brave cat.

"You speak French?"

He sat up now and rubbed his shoulder.

"I do. Why? Do you think Germans are uneducated cretins?"

"I-"

"And what have you done to my shoulder?"

Well, of all the- "What have _I _done? I've dug the bullet out of it, that's what I've done."

He grimaced. "Obviously you've never learnt to bandage a wound."

"Well so sorry if my skills don't match your expectations, maybe next time you could try not getting shot."

He opened his mouth to reply but her indignation rose.

"Oh! Oh, Oh, Oh! You, you stupid brute, you crushed my vegetables. I should have left your ungracious carcass out there to rot. It was only my pity for the squashed cabbages that made me lug you inside- and might I add, it wasn't even lugged. There is not a word to describe how I managed to get your heavy arse up those steps. Now I swear to the Lord above if you move one more inch I'll club you."

He suddenly burst into a fit of laughter. "You think you can keep me down with a measly piece of-" _whack!_

"Well," she fell back onto the chair "that should do it."

'Thank you Lord' she silently added. Crookshanks, sensing the peace again, waddled inside and flopped onto the strangers face. He sure wasn't going to kick him off.


	2. Chapter 2

**AN- Thank you guys so much for the reviews, every one of them just made my fingers type the keyboard a little bit faster. I don't want to give you guys the wrong impression that this is a humorous story. Yes, it is funny in parts, as well as romantic and angsty in other parts. It's a lot harder to build up to those though, since I have to get them to know each other first. The sad thing about AUs I'm afraid.**

**DISCLAIMER- I do not own anything affiliated with Harry Potter, and if I was JK Rowling I'd buy myself a better laptop. I do, however, want to own Crookshanks, who reminds me somewhat of a fatter version of Snooki/Oompa Loompa**

**R/R Pretty please *uses Draco's puppy eyes***

"Crook, please get off the German before he opens his mouth and swallows you whole." Crook ignored her and put his head down again.

It was bright and early, and obviously a frying pan was an extremely good weapon of choice, for the soldier hadn't woken once.

But now what? Should she make him breakfast? Should she let Crook continue to suffocate him?

Hermione started praying again. "Please, God above let Crook somehow kill him. The soil is perfect for digging, I can bury him in the back yard, I can burn him, and I can-"

"Get off me!"

Bloody hell, there goes those dreams.

There was a tail in his throat. A big, round, long, bushy tail lodged in his throat, for Christ's sake. And when he somehow managed to pull the thing out, its owner turned, squatted and tried to push its head in.

"Get off me!" He shoved at the monster, and it rolled off and hit the floorboards with a heavy thump.

The first thing to enter his mind was the Invasion. The second thing was a frying pan.

"What did you do to Crookshanks?" A very feminine shriek, followed by a patter of footsteps, and in walked the assailant.

"What did I do? I pushed the bag of fur off me before it killed me. And pray tell why my head is throbbing? Oh, that's right, because you smacked a pan against it!"

She picked up the heavy creature and coddled it to her chest, "Poor Crook, poor baby." She soothed a hand over its head, clearly ignoring Draco.

"Girl, I'm talking to you!" He was getting agitated now, and he swore he felt a bump the size of his fist on his skull.

"You need to leave," she pointed to a bundle of clothes in the corner "I washed those. It's all of it."

"Leave? Are you joking? And walk into my certain death?"

"Well you're not staying here!" She said indignantly "Along comes the French and accuses me of sheltering a criminal of War. No thank you. Now get out."

He sighed. He was sore, dirty, half dead, dehydrated and he was in trouble. If he went out there they'd capture him, torture him and shoot him. Paris had been taken. He would have to wait for the excitement to die down before he managed to sneak out.

"Look," he stated "it's not as if I want to stay here with some dirty, French milkmaid-"

"Milkmaid!"

"But," he continued, ignoring her "I'm not walking into a trap either. Now let's see your options, shall we? When the Germans seize France again from your allies I'll put in a good word for you and this" he gestured around "this shack, if you'll allow me the use of it for now." Which of course was a lie, he had no intention of buttering up his seniors to save a stupid twit like her, but she didn't need to know that.

"Milkmaid? Do I look like some dumb chit with an apron and cow dung in her hair? "

He snorted, eyes travelling from the bush of frizzy brown hair, to narrow nutty eyes, down a short and boyish figure clothed in men's overalls, to muddy boots "No, you look worse."

"Crookshanks, please go claw out the pratt's eyes." The fat creature glared at him as if warning him 'don't test me'.

"And she talks to animals, too. Great, I'm in a shack with a crazy, dirty French milkmaid."

"Well darn," she replied "you can fix all your woes by just _leaving._"

He pulled a finger through his hair, cringing when it found a tangled not "I told you I'm not leaving, are French ears so dirty you can't comprehend me?"

The girl threw down the cat, marched back towards the kitchen, all the while yelling "Right, I am removing the frying pan from the cupboard," a door banged "I am bringing the frying pan back" footsteps, "and I am going to put a dent in your face!"

"Oh God no, not the frying pan." She obviously was immune to sarcasm, because she swung it towards him anyway.

He caught it easily with his uninjured arm and waved it at her, "This is getting old, by the way."

She grabbed it away from him, hugging it to her chest.

This was followed by a long stretch of silence. He could see the clock ticking in her head, see the wheels turning. Was she going to be polite, was she going to scream, was she going to cower in a corner? He hadn't been very impressed with the bravery of French girls so far. German girls were strong and courageous, French girls whimpered under beds.

She reached a hand out tentatively "I'm-" she drew it back sharply, bit her lip, stretched it back out again "I'm Hermione Granger… and you are?"

"Not interested in formalities. Where did you put my gun?"

She glared at him and pulled her hand back to her chest "If you think I'm going to let a German brute walk around my house with a loaded gun you have another thing coming."

"I'm not in the mood, Harmony, now where is my gun?"

The girl stomped back to the kitchen, her fat cat following "It's _Hermione, _and I threw your precious gun into the lake down the road," she turned back to him with a humourless smile "please by all means, go fetch."

"Harmony, oh Harmony!" She muttered into the Pip's skin "stupid, lousy German bast- Crookshanks if you get a single hair in this milk pale I'll tan you."

Crookshanks' tail dipped dangerously near the milk.

"Oh for Goodness sake!" She shoved Crook aside with her boot. It had taken her half an hour to get this bucket half way full, and although she didn't mind being stuck in the barn away from a murdering arse, she didn't find the idea of picking orange hairs out her glass of milk entertaining.

When she walked out the front door the German was trying to put his shirt back on. Well, she certainly wasn't going to offer _her_ help. If he wanted it he would have to beg.

"Harmony,' she muttered again "dirty milkmaid, I wish I could show him dirty milkmaid, stupid git of a Nazi- Crookshanks _please_!"

Crook realized he wasn't getting anywhere, and sauntered out the barn door.

It wasn't huge, the barn. It had space for Pip and one or two other cows. Her father didn't want to invest in any more livestock, though, with the war going on and all.

She realized that this was the longest time she's gone without wondering when they were coming back.

She missed them, she really did. Especially now, when she had no idea what to do.

Hermione wondered what his name was, the arrogant boy who wouldn't get out her house. She couldn't exactly make him leave. Hell, if she was in his place she wouldn't want to walk out into danger either, even if it was what he and every other Nazi deserved.

Her mother had told her once she shouldn't hate all of them so much, that not every Nazi had wanted to be one, or had believed in the Aryan Race nonsense. But she didn't care. If she had a choice between dying as herself or fighting for something she detested, she'd probably put the bullet in her own brain. So what did pretend Nazis' deserve? Certainly not her sympathy for being cowards and murderers.

And now there was a murderer in her house. Great. Fantastic. Bloody spectacular.

"Right, well," she stood up, stretching her aching back out. Milking cow- check. Now onto those poor cabbages.

And should she go cook breakfast? Lunch? She needed to eat, but it would just be awkward if she sat there stuffing her face while he watched. God must have a sense of humour.

But finally someone must've answered her prayers properly, because when she went into the house he wasn't there anymore. His pile of clothes, excluding his undershirt and boots, were still dumped in the corner of the living room. Where'd he go? She did a check of all the rooms (all four, extremely small rooms) and lo and behold, he wasn't there.

"Better eat while I have the chance then," she decided, "now where has Crookshanks gone off to? The barn again, probably."

Crookshanks was, in fact, not in the barn. He was, however, sitting by the small lake that ran along the pathway to the cottage.

He sat in half amusement, half boredom, watching the stranger, who was now diving into the murky water.

Apparently he saw the 'glint' of his gun. It was rather boring watching someone dive up and down in search of a glint, but Crookshanks had nowhere else to be at the moment. He certainly was not going to sit by his master, who had been in a sour mood since this morning. He had no idea why. After all, _she _hadn't been shoved off a comfy chest and onto the floor.

The stranger came up for air, gasping.

"Damn that girl to hell!" He groaned in frustration, "Where is this bloody gun?"

Crook went unnoticed as the stranger did another dive to the bottom of the lake, feeling around for his precious gun.

Crook knew it would go on forever. After all, he'd seen his master put the gun under her pillow. The stranger was going to be here all day.

He turned his head lazily. Speak of the devil, Hermione slumped down next to him, watching the same bewildering scene he had just moments ago. Up came the blond head, and down it went again.

Her lips perked, she reached out to stroke his back.

"Having fun?" She called out as he came back up again "it's rather dirty, but I'm sure you prefer it that way."

He swung his head around to glare at her "On the contrary, you're enough dirty for all of us. Is my gun in here or not, because I'm bloody well not finding it!"

She stifled a chuckle "Oh it's in there alright."

"By the way," he shot back, clearly not believing her "this is not a lake, it's a glorified duck pond."

"Oh clearly it is," she snorted "say hi to them for me."

"Say hi to them-" he muttered inaudibly, disappearing underneath the murky surface.

Crookshanks really didn't understand her peals of sudden cackling. She's the one who's going to have to put on a new bandage tonight after all.

He stood up and swaggered down the road back to the cottage. He wondered if he could get into the milk again.

"You must have porridge for brains I swear," Hermione pinned the bandage in place. Oh, how had she been roped into this again? Everywhere her hands touched him it burnt. It sent a searing pain straight to her soul, screaming at her, calling her a traitor for helping the enemy.

"I was trying to find my gun! If you had just given it to me in the first place-"

"Oh, so somebody I don't know, don't like and don't trust can walk around my house and at any given time, pull out his pistol and shoot me?"

Absolute porridge for brains, she screamed inwardly. And what the hell was Crookshanks grinning for, if she'd wanted a Cheshire cat she would have bloody bought one.

"Ow! There's a sharp pin in your fingers woman! Jesus."

"So sorry," she replied, whilst pushing the pin into his skin again, "I'm not a qualified nurse you know."

"Well if you stopped staring at your cat for five minutes it would help. Is he your only beau or something?"

She blushed "You think I have time for that nonsense?" Crookshanks hissed in agreement.

"Obviously not, especially with the way you dress." He affirmed.

Hermione rubbed at her denims unconsciously. Sure, she was a bit boyish and prudish. But why would she run around in a fancy dress all day when she was just going to ruin it anyway?

It wasn't her fault she was like this. She'd grown up relatively alone. When she wasn't stuck with her nose in a history book she was helping her father lug around fish and sacks of wheat.

She never had much interaction with people her own age, except for Harry and his ghastly cousin who'd tried to kiss her last year. Well, he wouldn't try that again, at least not with his legs open. Harry had been amused though.

So this was it. The longest time she had ever spent with a man not related to her. She wondered how old he was. He seemed to be only one or two years older than her. Perhaps nineteen or twenty.

"What's your name?" She asked, smoothing out the bandage.

He sighed "That's none of your concern Harmony."

"Hermione," she corrected "and it's only fair I know the name of the person I'm bandaging."

"Starts with a D." He replied.

She tapped her chin "Hmm… Douglas? Dobbin? Dumbo?" she sniggered "its Dumbo isn't it?"

He sighed again.

"It is not Dumbo."

"Mores the pity. Until I know you're name I'll just have to call you Dumbo. Are you hungry Dumbo?"

"Harmony," he warned.

"Yes Dumbo?" She smirked. Oh yes, I can irritate you into leaving in a few days, tops. Game on.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. She could see the annoyance slowly building.

Finally he said "Hermione."

"Oh, very good Dumbo."

"Draco…"

"No, it's Hermione."

He exploded "No you stupid chit! _I'm _Draco! You are Hermione, we are not Harmony and, God forbid, Dumbo. We are Draco and Hermione!"

She raised an eyebrow "Super. Are we now a team of heroes? Shall we be called Dramione, and have banners raised in our name, and-"

"Oh God above,"

"Don't do that. Last time I petitioned God he sent me you."

"Duly noted, now can we eat something?"

Crookshanks rolled his eyes. Humans, pfft, who needs them.

The two made their way into the kitchen while he curled up on the couch.

"Oh that cat, I swear-" mumble, mumble, mumble, "Crookshanks! Why are there orange hairs in the milk?" Hermione yelled through the kitchen door.

Crookshanks was sleeping soundly, of course. He wouldn't wake until morning.

"So sorry about that," she said sheepishly, "I've never managed to get him to behave."

"Okay." Draco replied, nonchalantly.

Hermione picked at her cornbread. This was the most awkward moment in her life. Scrap that, being caught skinny dipping by her father was the most awkward moment in her life, but _this_- this was a very close second.

There was nothing more unnerving than a silent dinner. With her parents it had always been a loud occasion, they were either laughing or fighting, but never silent. He was ignoring her, the German, Draco or whatever. It made her uneasy. It's not as if she wanted to have a joyous conversation with the guy but still, a little more syllables in his replies wouldn't be so bad.

"Do you believe in the whole idea of the Aryan race?"

He glanced up and shrugged.

Well what in the world does that mean? Shrug yes? Shrug no? Shrug what the hell?

"So…"

"So I don't think that's a conversation that should be had while I'm replenishing my stomach."

'Oh God, I know I'm not supposed to petition you anymore, since all it got me was a Nazi and squashed cabbages, but still, _please _kill him.'

"So," She tried again.

Draco dropped his fork, having given up trying to ignore her "So where am I sleeping tonight?"

"On the couch, where else?"

"You have an empty room, I see."

"You're not sleeping in there."

"Why?"

"It's my parent's room."

"They're not here now."

She took her plate to the sink and turned the faucet on. "You still just… you just can't okay?"

"Where are they?"

"They're coming home soon. They're coming." She grabbed the sponge and began scrubbing her plate "they're coming…" she whispered, to herself and to the gripping pain that clutched her heart because a part of her believed they never would.


End file.
